


Pulmonary Impact

by baph0meat



Category: Guild Wars 2 (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol, Drabble, Hot, M/M, canach gets a little horny about daredevil utility skills
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-30
Updated: 2017-08-30
Packaged: 2018-12-21 21:02:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11952570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/baph0meat/pseuds/baph0meat
Summary: “Is that really how you measure units of time, Commander.” Canach’s voice is barbed, teasing; he’s smirking and smug. “Just stretches of ennui between opportunities to see me.”“Yes,” says Glyndwr, because he’s nectared.---Loose lips sink ships, but sometimes they sail them instead.





	Pulmonary Impact

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally written as a small portion of a much longer project of mine, which spans from the formation of the Pact all the way through the end of HoT (and shamelessly fixes everything about the writing that bothers me), but I liked this vignette enough that I decided to post it by itself while I work on that.
> 
> PM, Bungle Blowup, and Farmer are all characters belonging to my friends - out of context, the mentions of them in the beginning of the drabble don't make much sense, but I still decided not to cut them out!

There’s been a victory, finally. A massive mordrem assault driven back, camps rebuilt and fortified, and for the first time, a Pact that comes out stronger in the morning than it was the day before. The commanders, together, finally feel they can order a well-deserved celebration, and the relief among the troops is palpable. Even PM’s mood seems lifted, though the unspoken thought still creasing his brow is clear to all his friends: _I_ _wish_ _Trahearne_ _were_ _here_.

Bungle and Farmer bustle him off to the table the troops have set up with food and drink, loud and boisterous and hellbent on distraction. Glyndwr, on the other hand, takes advantage of the noise and energy to slip away. Canach follows him without asking, and he doesn’t mind that one bit.

“So eager to escape the crowds that you forgot the most important part,” Canach admonishes him, as he flops down on a makeshift bench of moss and vines. Glyn looks up to see him holding out a flask of liquor and sighs.

“I didn’t take you for a party animal,” Glyndwr mutters, but he accepts the drink anyway. Canach slumps onto the vines, their legs touch, Glyn closes his eyes for one long moment. He hands the flask back.

“I’m not, but I think we’ve at least earned this much.” Canach’s swig is much heartier than the Commander’s was. “Earned the peace and quiet, too.”

They sit in comfortable silence for a while, passing the liquor back and forth and listening to the distant cacophony of the Pact camp. Every once in a while, a soldier or two or three bustles by, laughing and stumbling, but the pair is deep enough in the shade that no one ever pays them any mind. Their conversation comes back in bits and pieces as the drinks loosen their tongues, and Canach never moves his leg.

“I’m nectared,” Glyn announces, finally. There’s not much indication of it, in his bearing or his voice, but it’s just barely visible in the softened way he moves.

Canach snorts. “When was the last time _that_ happened, Commander.”

“Mm. Before all this. After I saw you at Divinity’s Reach, but - before I saw you at Dry Top.”

“Is that really how you measure units of time, Commander.” Canach’s voice is barbed, teasing; he’s smirking and smug. “Just stretches of ennui between opportunities to see me.”

“Yes,” says Glyndwr, because he’s nectared. Canach chokes. Unaffected, he continues, “What about for you, then. When was the last time you got really - give me that back. The last time you got really drunk.”

“Are you _really_ drunk,” Canach needles, having recovered from his coughing fit. “Because I’m not. Hm. Well, you know, a while, since I’ve been in jail.”

“Ah.”

“So.”

Glyn’s glances at him out of the corner of his eye, vaguely worried; but when Canach meets his gaze, he bursts out laughing, and Glyn finds himself quickly joining him. “What, they weren’t letting you get tipsy in your cell, then.”

“Maybe if they had I wouldn’t have wanted out so badly. Stupid of them not to think of it.” The flask is empty, and he balances it between his knees. “But then I wouldn’t have ended up here.”

Glyndwr sighs, leaning back. The red clouds above them seem comfortable, for once, instead of ominous, and the humidity and heat like a sleepy blanket rather than an oppressive, smothering force. “Is that a good thing or a bad thing.”

“You’re being obtuse.” Canach leans over, touches the hilt of one of Glyn’s daggers inquisitively; he finds himself allowing it, incomprehensibly. “You were very good, you know. Out there. You have to show me the -”

“The,” Glyn echoes, sleepily. Canach makes an intricate, unfocused gesture, which only makes Glyn burst into another fit of dry, uncharacteristic giggles.

“The - you did something, when - there was that mounted mordrem, you know, when Commander Blowup needed more at south camp, and we were trying to get to her -” Canach slaps Glyn’s chest lightly with the back of his hand, trying to reclaim his attention. “I thought it was still in fighting shape. It looked like it would take forever to go down. But then you struck it, several times, faster than my eye could follow - and it didn’t seem to do much - but then, a few moments later, it shuddered and fell.”

Glyn’s watching a sparkfly crawl up Canach’s leg. He likes that Canach isn’t brushing it away. “Pulmonary impact,” he murmurs.

“Show me how,” Canach insists. Glyn sits up, painstakingly, leans over Canach’s lap.

“If you strike the chest of an opponent enough times to create a situation of vulnerability - those were the blows I landed first - you’ll have a window of opportunity. Like so.” Canach is watching the fluid movements of his hands, recognizing them as the sharp, decisive movements of the field, underwater and weighed down by contentment. “And then, if you strike with all your force, just here -”

He presses the blade of his hand to Canach’s sternum. His eyes, liquid gold, are lidded but intently focused. He can feel Canach’s heartbeat. “Just here, with all your force, one sharp blow.”

Canach’s leaning into his touch. “What happens, then.”

The corner of Glyn’s mouth quirks up, self-satisfied. “Five seconds later, their lungs explode,” he says, and Canach kisses him.


End file.
